Mr November
by withered
Summary: It was mind-blowing; a religious experience; there are teeth marks on my ass, Scott. I'm pretty sure he had his tongue in there, Scott. And he blew me so good I'm pretty sure I met God, Scott. Which is what Stiles would say if it didn't culminate to the most terrible conclusion of his existence thus far: It was a one-night stand, a not-to-be-repeated experience.


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Mr. November

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It's a travesty. Truly.

Stiles can't believe it's happening.

Which isn't to say he wasn't expecting it, but still.

_He just can't believe_.

Arm still outstretched over the empty space beside him on the bed, Stiles attempts to mentally innumerate the many ways his life has gone to shit. Itemize it. Categorize it. _Sub-categorize it. _Number it again for old time's sake. Colour code it. The whole shebang. He's thorough like that. But then his phone vibrates on the nightstand, and when he attempts to roll over to reach it, his body tinges distractingly, deliciously, awfully, and it's _perfect_.

God, Derek really did keep his promise of nailing him so good it would be all he ever thought about, and fuck if it doesn't hurt in all the right ways.

Grimacing, he manages to get to his phone before the person stops calling, and winces against the brightly lit screen – Scott's dopey grin and Kira's peace-sign greet him in the caller ID photo. Stiles groans, accepting the call as he does so, "'Lo?"

"Dude, you sound terrible," Scott chirps like the crazy morning person he is, though Stiles doesn't bother to disagree which works just fine for Scott as he continues cheerfully, "You're alive and breathing then, that's great. Did you have a good time?"

It was mind-blowing; a religious experience; _there are teeth marks_ _on my ass, Scott. I'm pretty sure he had his tongue in there, Scott. And he blew me so good I'm pretty sure I met **God**, Scott. _Which is what he'd say if it didn't culminate to the most terrible conclusion of his existence thus far: It was a one-night stand, a not-to-be-repeated experience with the actual man of Stiles' dreams and –

_His ass hurts so good he could cry, and none of this is fair._

Scott's pep is cruel. Stiles' life is a mess. It's the worst time for pep of any kind.

"Why are you calling?" he gruffly demands, though it sounds more like the croak of a dying frog.

"Because you asked me to when you left with Derek last night," Scott reminds, oblivious to his pain, clearly far more cheered that he doesn't need to concern himself with reporting his best friend missing or have to leave work to identify Stiles' corpse in some ditch. "Something about calling you to confirm it was real?"

"What time is it?" Stiles asks instead.

"Ten," Scott hums, "you're welcome for the wake-up call, by the way, god knows you'd still be in Derek's bed until the P.M if I didn't." That would be based on the assumption that Derek wouldn't immediately kick Stiles out as soon as he came back, and Stiles totally isn't bitter over Scott's optimism. Really.

"Yeah, great," Stiles sighs, "thanks, Scotty."

"No problem man," he says, still blissfully unaware of Stiles' turmoil as a permanent smile curls his next words before he launches into some work anecdote, punctuated by the sound of excited yips and barks, and Stiles can't help but think _it's so unfair_.

Fortunately for Stiles, the dogs need their "alpha" as Scott so lovingly refers to himself to his puppy-children, and signs off with a reminder that it's Stiles' turn to make dinner tonight, but not to worry because Scott's not picky and he might be seeing Kira later anyway, but he'll let him know and –

_Seriously, so unfair._

Stiles doesn't begrudge his best friend his good fortune of a job he likes and a girlfriend he loves and _puppies_, but for Stiles, at the rate his life is going none of that is going to happen for him. So, while he wouldn't wish Scott any differently, Stiles is honestly a bit pessimistic about everything.

He'd come back to his hometown with a bestseller and a half-way written sequel that was nothing more than scrapped ideas before wandering around the usually-empty apartment he was crashing at with Scott, only to spend his lonesome evenings between Wikipedia pages, his Xbox and his slowly dwindling Netflix Must-Watch-List.

The most action he's gotten since moving back to Beacon Hills is when he had to be fireman carried _by Derek_ a month ago when Stiles tried to make dinner and while it was a dream come true in some ways, it doesn't change the fact that Stiles – Stiles is lonely. He's alone.

It's – it's not fun.

Not that he's shared the feeling with anyone; Scott would just feel bad, Lydia would give him that judgemental look that was potent as ever even through Skype, and his dad would only worry.

Stiles rubs a hand over his face.

God, he's pathetic.

He just slept with Derek _Fucking _Hale; high school baseball legend, firefighter, and Mr. November of the BHFD's yearly charity calendar, two years running.

Stiles should take the victory where he can get it.

No doubt Derek will, it's probably just another notch on his bedpost.

So what if Stiles caught dumb feelings over Derek saving him, it isn't a baffling phenomenon of strange proportions, and Stiles' high school crush on Derek plays no role in this whatsoever. Stiles will challenge anyone with any inclination towards any person identifying as male to look at Derek Hale's _everything_ and not consider throwing their legs over his shoulders.

So what if the intimacy was fleeting? It was never going to lead to anything, anyway.

If Derek remembers the name _Stiles Stilinski _at all, it's probably only to recall the weird kid with moles everywhere who submitted a paper on circumcision for Econ.

It's his loss, Stiles decides despite that annoying pit in his stomach.

Stiles would've totally been down for a morning-after blow-job, Derek wouldn't even have to reciprocate. Stiles is pretty sure his dick was made to be sucked anyway. Just the thought of the velvet weight of it on his tongue makes Stiles' mouth water.

Stiles doesn't remember if he actually got to do it though, between the very enthusiastic rimming that's resulted in beard burn on his ass cheeks, and the blow job _he'd gotten _on top of that, Stiles' memories of last night are a little bit fried.

Though his morning breath is definitely a lot worse than usual…

God, Stiles hopes he made it good for Derek – hopes he put on a show, if anything, Stiles hopes Derek remembers him.

He's been told he looks good giving head. Something about his mouth being obscene and – Oh god, was Derek a hair-puller? Fuck, he hopes so. Stiles always did have a thing for having his hair pulled.

Absently, his hand goes to his already fattening cock, stroking idly as his mind conjures up the possibilities; the blow-job he'll definitely remember giving, the condoms he knows he still has in his wallet, definitely being loose enough that he could totally take him again if Derek –

A throat clears, and Stiles is so startled he yanks a bit too hard on his own junk, yelps and – yeah, if that didn't hurt away the impending albeit languid orgasm in his veins, Derek standing in the doorway scared it right out of him.

"I…didn't mean to interrupt," Derek says, his cheeks flushed, and his lip looking recently bitten, and _goddamn, either he's got a gun on him or he's _very _happy to see me._

Almost guiltily, Stiles gaze flickers hurriedly back up to his face, and he can't decide how that's much better when Derek's cheekbones and jaw could cut glass if it weren't for that perfectly groomed beard of his.

The darkness of his hair and the near-golden tan of his skin contrasts distractingly with the green-blue of his eyes, and _how the hell are those even real?_ Stiles thinks he's going lightheaded. Though above it, Derek's expressive eyebrows are caught between conveying concern and curiosity, and Stiles' brain legitimately disconnects at the bare-minimum sign of worry for him until he remembers why.

"Oh my god." Making a futile attempt to smother his still very-erect dick with a pillow, he splutters, "Christ, I can explain." _But don't ask me to_, Stiles mentally begs, _I really can't._

"It's alright…I really didn't mean to…interrupt," Derek raises his brows in an expression of hesitation, a flash of white teeth and a tongue flicking out almost without his notice, and that's really all the suggestion Stiles needs before he's whimpering without express permission from his brain. Which is just fine because most of his brain power is apparently intent on ruining his dwindling chances to make this not awkward when Stiles swears he can feel the phantom heat of that lush mouth wrapped around his –

Looking away quickly, Derek rubs the back of his neck with one hand and clears his throat. Though, if Stiles is being honest, it doesn't do much to help the situation when he's still trying to wrangle some semblance of politeness from his mini-me.

"Uh, I brought you breakfast," Derek says like he finally remembered why he'd come in at all and that's the first time Stiles had even noticed Derek had a tray in his hand.

Stiles can't be blamed.

A lot's been going on.

His brain's processing power is still firmly on the proud piece of equipment aimed due Stiles, and he's gotta be honest, he really digs that kind of decisiveness.

Though the breakfast…is confusing, to say the least. There are eggs, and a bacon smiley face, hash browns and mushrooms, and a small bowl of colorful fruit and two kinds of yogurt and it's adorable and thoughtful and _why_, "Thank…you?"

"Derek," he supplies like somehow _Stiles forgot._

_"Yeah, I know_," he says, rolling his eyes because _of all the ridiculous things to happen to me over the past twenty-four hours alone – _"I'm Stiles."

"_Yeah, I know," _Derek mimics, and apparently the surprise on Stiles' face is potent enough that Derek supplies, "The oven fire last month?" 

"Right…" _Of course, _Stiles thinks with an embarrassed flush. "Uh, you don't get a lot of those, huh?"

"Not from the Sheriff's kid," he says with a chuckle. "Erica was convinced it wasn't you, no one had even known you came back home before the fire."

"Yeah," he cringes, "I was kind of hiding, to be honest…But uh – thanks, I don't think I told you, so uh…you know."

Derek rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, you kind of made that clear at the bar last night."

_Jesus H Christ, I did not, _Stiles pales. "Oh my god, I didn't force myself on you or -"

"No, it was completely welcomed," Derek rushes to placate, and Stiles feels like his brain is short-circuiting. _Welcomed – What-what is happening? _Derek clears his throat again, though it does nothing to smooth out the sudden shyness in his voice as he repeats, "So, uh, breakfast?"

But Stiles is stuck, and he realizes in a tone that is entirely too accusing: "You wanted to sleep with me."

Derek's blush goes impossibly darker and then he's stuttering, "I just – I didn't expect you to come back home, I thought I'd lost my chance to ever -"

"Whoa, wait a fucking second!" There's a chance Stiles' brain has entirely shut down and – this isn't happening – _how the – _"What do you mean, _thought you lost your chance_?"

"You were two years younger than me," he says as if _Stiles wasn't acutely aware during high school_, "and then you graduated and left, and no one had seen you since so I just thought…"

"Thought…?" Stiles prompts.

"Last chance," Derek sighs out. "Figured, I should make it count." He nods at the continental breakfast spread and _holy God._

"Derek," Stiles begins slowly. "I'm going to need you to confirm that you didn't successfully murder me with orgasms last night and I'm not currently dead and in heaven."

His mouth opens and closes, and then almost uncertainly, he does just that: reaching over to toss the pillow off Stiles' lap to his startled yelp and yet another hurried attempt to cover up with his hands. "Jesus, what the -"

"If you really don't want breakfast," Derek interjects with furrowed brows, "I can take care of that instead." And he's so serious it's adorable and utterly baffling and – His cheeks are bright as he adds, "I mean if you're amenable…?"

"If I'm…Derek," Stiles scolds, practically hysterical, "heaven, yes or no?"

And then Derek grabs him by the hips, kneels at the edge of the bed and bows his head over Stiles' crotch and – oh_, oh, heaven, yes. Okay. Stiles is okay with this. He's very okay with this._


End file.
